I took the tree down yesterday. Because Monday was the day the kids went back to school, and taking the tree down was the end of the holiday illusion, I always took the tree down on that day so as to spare the little ones any sadness. Up until 5 Christmases ago, we always had a large, full. floor to ceiling tree, even that first year when it was just the two of us in our Schaghticoke apartment.(Though we were expecting a third family member.)
The Christmas tree was always welcomed in our house; excitement reigned. After the tree was ensconced in its stand, Dave would string the lights on it, and the rest of the decorating was up to me. The kids would find the little ornamental figures that Grandma would send those first years, and would play with them for hours during the decorating process. There were little Santa and soldier figures, and such, of the unbreakable sort.
That ritual of the tree was an annual event; the sameness of it made it seem as if it would go on forever, as it had for decades. But nothing lasts forever, and one year, seemingly out of the blue, we were in need of more room to allow access to the living space, so I bought a smallish living Christmas tree, which was potted in soil, purportedly suitable for planting outdoors when weather permitted. (That was not the case, though we tried.) The next year was the same, a living tree which we put lights on and ornaments and the treasure trove of homemade decorations.
In 2018, we were gifted with our first artificial tree, which served for Christmas 2019 and this year, 2020. Yesterday I took it down; I removed the angel which topped the tree, and then stored back in its original carton, the two sections of lighted tree and its base, the 20 red ornaments, the gold ribbon wrap and tree skirt. So quick and easy to do, no drama at all. A Christmas cactus from my mother sits in its place at present. Christmas 2021 is yet to be determined.
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